The Forty-Seventh Take
by iHeartJimmyStewart
Summary: Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers have a hard time filming the "Never Gonna Dance" number from Swing Time, and they finally get it right. But all isn't well, since Ginger's feet are bleeding and it's up to Fred to play doctor and help her out. Fred x Ginger. Please read and review! :)


"For God's sake, Fred, everyone's getting tired. Look at you - you're a mess. And Ginger is, too." George Stevens, the director, protested. He himself was terribly tired and frustrated with the repeated takes of the dance number, ironically titled "Never Gonna Dance". They had done it - what? More than forty times. It was going on and on and on. If Astaire didn't insist on having the whole dance taken in _one _take, then they would probably have been done by then. And what made it worse was the fact that he wanted to continue doing it till it was done right.

They had been working at it for hours and hours, and George thought it was a good idea if they stopped for the night and tried again the next day. After all, they would be less tired, and more likely to get it right. It was so frustrating, since every single time Fred and Ginger got up the stairs, something or the other went wrong. The camera wouldn't work, they would miss a step, et cetra, et cetra.

"I'm going to do it if I kill myself today, George." That was Fred's insistent reply as he sat down in his chair with a sigh, wiping the sweat off his forehead. He didn't know how much longer he could do that, but he was going to keep at it if he dropped dead on the floor. He hated leaving work unfinished like that.

"Be reasonable, Fred, can't you see-" Stevens was cut off as Ginger Rogers approached the two men. She was equally tired, and probably frustrated too, but she had the same work ethic as her dance partner.

"One last take, George, one last take. If we don't do it this time, we'll pack up and continue tomorrow." She wanted to get the whole thing done and over with as well. Ginger had just gulped down yet another bottle of water, sometimes feeling as if she was hardly able to stand, let alone dance. She made her way over to one of the chairs, which was occupied by Hermes Pan, but he quickly vacated the seat for her.

From his place, Fred noted something peculiar about the expression of "Feathers", as he liked to call her. She was exhausted, no doubt, but there was something else, too. What was that? Sadness? No, couldn't be. Was it... was it _pain_? There was no time for him to find out as the director finally conceded that one more take wouldn't hurt anyone. Or, so he thought.

"All right, everyone, places! We're gonna do this one more time! _One more time_!" He called, and the crew members who were taking breaks reluctantly shuffled back to their places.

The music started. Fred wanted nothing more than to get the whole routine done perfectly, and he hoped that the cameras would co-operate this time around. Before the cameras had started rolling, he noticed that Pan had a look of consternation on his face about something, but he couldn't think of that now. He had to get the steps right. _Left, right, and spin..._

Ginger's feet were almost numb from all the dancing that they were doing, and yet, it had helped, since every movement came almost automatically to her. She could even do it in her sleep if she tried. That is, if she got any sleep. She would be happier than ever for the number just to be over with and to go back and rest. She sure needed it.

The two dancers made their way up the steps, and that was the part where almost everything went wrong. Fred caught Ginger after the first spin, and he swore that if anything went wrong at that moment, he would probably explode with frustration.

But miraculously, it didn't. It went perfectly. She spinned again. He caught her again. There were two more spins. And since George hadn't called "cut" yet, he assumed that the cameras were doing fine. Third spin. He held her close to him, and at that moment, his heartbeat started to pick up. Fred had thought it impossible that it would go even faster than at the rate that it was going. Was it because they were _that _close to finishing the dance, or was it because he was holding her like that?

That was nonsense, just nonsense. Why was he even thinking dumb things like that in the middle of a dance? He had held her like that plenty of times before. Then why...?

Ginger broke away from the pose and he was brought back to reality. They finished the last few steps in perfect harmony, and then she made her exit. It was done. It was all finished, except for one last thing. In-character, Fred had to strike a sort of "forlorn" pose. He did it perfectly, but not because Ginger's character had left him. It was because they were _finally_ done.

"Cut!" George called loudly, and the crew started cheering at the success of the final take. Fred looked up at his dancing partner and gave her a wide smile, which she returned. He was about to say something when he heard Pan's voice. He was saying something to the effect of "what color are her shoes?"

That was completely unlike Pan. Why was he blabbering away about something irrelevant like that after they had just finished their dance at long last? Still, Fred thought about what color Ginger's shoes were supposed to be. White, right? But when his gaze fell upon her shoes, it didn't corroborate that fact. They were pink.

"Why, Feathers, I-" He quickly realized what was going on. Her feet were bleeding. She looked at him with an expression of distress, almost as if she was about to cry. At once, Fred walked over and picked her up in his arms, despite the fact that he was really tired too. George and the rest of the crew had rushed up to congratulate them on the take, but the director stopped in the doorway at the sight.

"Get a first-aid kit. She's bleeding." Fred instructed, and they quickly cleared a path for him to descend the steps. He had never felt more concerned for someone, and the sense of victory at having finished the dance had almost evaporated. Ginger Rogers _close to tears_? He didn't get how that happened. She never cried. She was always the strongest one out of all his dance partners.

They made it to her make-up room, and he gently put her down on one of the divans. "We did it, Feathers, we did it. Forty-seven takes. But we made it." He whispered, trying to comfort her. While some of the others looked around for a first-aid kit, Fred decided the best thing to do was to take off her shoes. Carefully, he slid one of them off, and it was met with an "ouch!" on Ginger's part.

"Shh. It's all right. It's _all right._" He wondered for a brief moment why he never whispered in a silly way like that in everyday life, but he went back to taking the other shoe off, as delicately and gently as possible.

"Here's the first-aid kit." Pan rushed into the room with it, and Fred took it without a word. He gave credit to his friend for being the first one to notice it. Knowing Feathers, she would just keep quiet about the whole thing. And she would come in the next day and say nothing and dance again.

"This might hurt, Feathers." He advised, as he started wiping the blood off her feet. Quietly, he set about displaying an astonishing knowledge of bandaging things, and he did it efficiently and properly.

"Freddie," Ginger began softly. "I'm glad we finished it tonight." She winced as the ointment stung a little bit, but otherwise didn't make any protest.

"Yeah. I'm glad too. Look, I didn't mean to work you to death tonight. I... I'm awfully sorry." Fred looked up apologetically.

"No, it's all right, I persuaded George to do the take."

"And what a take it was. But no more dancing or even filming for a few days. Look at what you've done to yourself." He almost sounded like he was scolding a little kid.

"Oh, but Freddie, the next scene sounds perfect!" That was her first protest as she sat up abruptly.

"Next scene nothing. You're going to rest, and that's that." Fred replied firmly. "Now lie down."

"Yes, _doctor_." She made a face as she lay down again.

Smiling at her pout, he took her hand and kissed it.


End file.
